The 3 Little Piggies: Chapter One

The crisp night air crawled through her stiffened fingers. Her eyes bore an almost laughable look of non compos mentis – so totally irrelevant to the insignia of violence carved into her pupils and brain. The eyelashes had delicately frosted themselves to her lids. Cold had chiselled its way quietly into her body, stiffening her limbs and chilling her blood into a sticky pool on the pavement – the circumference already crystallizing in fine patterned tubes.

Light from the street lamp gave her face a freaky grotesqueness. She would have been an attractive girl, but death had a disturbing way of changing the way you looked. She didn’t look like she was asleep – she looked like she was dead.

Of course the brutal way in which she died had had a hand in rearranging her features. The tiny hairs that covered her face and body stood tall to the cold – the iridescent droplets shining a sad dampness on her tangled figure like a shroud of crushed diamonds. Her handbag lay upside down in the gutter, one arm outstretched in a vain effort to clutch at a secret weapon never found. A couple of tampons had rolled sneakily out of the handbag and lay frosty and useless – a rather sad reminder that being personally embarrassed by a stray tampon is a whole lot more dignified than being found desperately dead with your skirt hiked up above your waist and a strange look permanently cast onto your face. She was dressed to impress too, although it would be hard to be impressed by, or to impress a corpse for that matter.

Her red coat lay open, its silk lining damp and shiny. Half of a designer label peered sulkily from amongst the fine folds as if embarrassed to be caught on a dead body. You didn’t have to see the whole label to know who it was. In fact all of her clothing seemed to have been created from someone’s design – not only the shoes and handbag but the thin gold lame belt and even her watch was all designer stuff. She was obviously a very stylish and well-to-do woman. Her handbag held a small wallet with her identification in it. The victim was Juliette Stodder, a respected socialite from a good family with a history of philanthropy, mentoring and generosity. Her father had passed away 9 months prior…and now this. How do you tell a mother her daughter has been murdered when she is still grieving for her husband?

Twenty-seven years old and she had never left the country. She must have been really pissed off at having been rudely interrupted in her game of life. Then again, why would any god let you have to feel like that?

Did anybody’s god really have something to do with it or was it just the very lowest echelon of human nature? No other animal killed without a reason – be it food, territorial, protection, survival or otherwise. Tough really – we all get to die at some stage – it’s just easier for some than others.

At least she was free now.

The body had lain still here for a little while. The cold didn’t make it any easier to judge the time lapse between life and no life, although it certainly could help to preserve certain critical evidence which could be invaluable.

The cops standing around looked unhappy and disturbed by the killing. Having your throat slit was not a cool way to expire. And who the hell knew if expiring was too cool at the best of times anyway?

Why would another human being do this to one of their own species? Why, when we were supposed to be some evolved, intelligent being on this earth? Who are we really trying to kid? This poor girl had been pretty, she had been blonde and not so long ago she had been alive. This wasn’t the kind of town where people went missing, you didn’t have to chain up your bike at school, let alone get found with your throat slit. It was almost as if someone had cased the town and decided we needed a bit of shaking up, a little blood sport might just put us on the map.

A dog barked pointlessly somewhere in the distant neighbourhood. The streets were cold and unwelcoming. The police moved around the body in a semi-organised fashion. Someone taking fingerprints, someone else was taking photographs of the body and the crime scene, evidence bagging, the Chief firing instructions left, right and centre while another team member stretched tape around the local area in which the body was spread-eagled. All of this activity had brought a few late-night stragglers out from their warm homes. It was after 11pm and a few had arrived with coats pulled around their pyjamas and Ugg boots or gumboots on. There were only about seven of them, but all of them seemed to be clutching themselves in some way – elbow to elbow or around their waists. Holding onto life maybe…

Their breath hung in hazy halos above their heads, occasionally tinged pink as the flashing lights from the police vehicle lazily spun through the air.

An older woman in her mid seventies was frantically trying to catch a young policeman’s’ eye. He tried to ignore her but decided it was easier to go and talk to her and gratefully accept the flasks of coffee his grandmother offered. She even had disposable cups so that the other guys could have a cup too. His boss would be very happy with him.

“I’m sorry all of this happened right outside your home, Grandma,” he said, stuffing the polystyrene cups into his windbreakers’ deep pockets, careful not to split them. For something that was supposed to contain a hot substance they were pretty flimsy.

“Seems this is the only action an old girl like me is gonna get!” Lila replied, her eyes sparkling with good humour, her happy face suddenly dropped into a concerned, sad one.

“But I am sad for that poor young girl and her family. She’s just been through a terrible time too.” She leaned over like a conspirator speaking in a low voice with her eyes looking both ways, she carried on without encouragement.

“She had to leave town,” her lips puckered up,” she left town to have an abortion,” she whispered the last words directly into his ear.

“Poor girl…”

The young man shook his head in sympathy. Of course he wasn’t used to seeing bodies of murder victims but his Grandmother was. She was an old hat at police business. Not only had she married a detective but her father had been in the police force too. One of her brothers had been shot and killed in action as a policeman and the other was a priest. Funnily enough, Benjamin, the cop, outlived Father Leyland.

She pursed her lips and shook her head, trying to rustle up some memories. They all seemed to be good memories, sure there was the time when Ben set fire to the playhouse with Leyland and her in it, but they didn’t really know what was going to happen. She and Leyland had stayed in the house thinking it would have to be hot before there was any serious danger – Benjamin, although the fire starter, was also in possession of the garden hose and they truly believed they were fine. Being kids and way back in those days you weren’t made as aware of these dangers as we are today and so they knew nothing of smoke inhalation. Fortunately their mother arrived on the scene and dragged them out and then called the Fire Department. They were not reprimanded either, remembered Lila.

It seemed all so long ago.

It was all so long ago.

Slowly her grandsons’ young face swum into view, with puppy dog eyes like his grandfather, she thought. Max leaned over and kissed his grandmother softly on the cheek, the flasks clicking together as he moved. He hadn’t been the one born with the brains but he was a gentle soul and she liked him.

Her grandson, Max, was a kind of indiscrete character. He wasn’t tall and yet he wasn’t short either. His hair was neither brown nor mousy but he did have startling eyes. Big brown eyes that made him seem permanently empathetic. Long, thick brown eyelashes enhanced their doe-like appearance. His grandmother told the old girls at the club that he was “a good boy” and he was, always had been. He had also known right from the beginning of his awareness, around three or four years old, that he wanted to be a policeman. Now, at a tender twenty-two, he still hankered to achieve the ultimate goal in the police force. Or at least what he considered to be the ultimate and that was to be a protégé of John Malvistons. Sadly he knew this would most probably not come to pass as John Malviston, Max’s superior, was closer to retiring than Max was to getting up the ladder that fast.

Luke Devlin, who was John’s protégé at the moment, was just about as good, just different. Of course every rookie wanted to be noticed by the legend in the force – it was a natural occurrence, how it should be and exactly what he should be aiming for.

“Two of the flasks are sugared – the other two not,” said his grandmother, tapping his hand with her papery soft fingertips.

“God you’re an old fusspot – worse than your Granddad ever was! All right Max, I’m off indoors – see you tomorrow, love.” She waved and wandered off back in the direction of home and warmth and comfort.

“Bye!” He called after her gently sloping figure. It really was bloody cold.

Max lived with his grandmother and even though in the beginning he had been embarrassed at how she turned up on crime scenes with coffee and sometimes even doughnuts, he really wondered at how he was going to manage without her when she was gone. He really loved her – so much so, that it hurt to think on these things – but inevitably she would pass on and he would have to get on with it – regardless. He knew this in his grown-up mind – he knew that the world would still turn even in the face of death and destruction. He just often wondered for exactly how much longer poor old earth could keep on turning. He hesitated and glanced behind him, watching his grandmother get safely indoors. He should keep an eye on her. There was possibly some kind of freak on the loose. Or someone the whole community had totally misjudged. Max just couldn’t imagine anyone he knew from here, people he had grown up with, no one, that could have done these things to another human being – not in this town. There were no solid facts either. This very bad person could go for anyone – young or old, male or female. No one knew anything right now – least of all, his little rookie-self.

The emptiness of soul left a frantic spirit – unleashed and insatiable. It doesn’t know change, only the desire to fulfil its’ yearning, its’ passion. Without control this spirit elevates itself to limits of a blackened consciousness and unfeeling heart – the very essence of an empty soul.

The devious nature of this spirit has touched us all in some way – burning our lives with a sense of hopelessness and unanswered questions of why? Why me? How did this happen? Why like this? What did I do to deserve this?

Footloose and fancy free these empty souls career through our lives totally oblivious to the emotional scars and emotional turmoil we are left to navigate and the forever unanswered questions. As opposed to misfortune, these intentionally soulless beings intend to be cruel, evil, uncaring. Some people are just born this way, no rhyme – no reason. It begs the question: are we already in hell – only hell could create such an extreme continuum of joy and grief, surely that is considered hell? And not only that, you never know if joy or grief is waiting for you just around that corner and how do you like your odds?

One of those ever-empty souls hung darkly in the back of Mals’ Bar, a busy little local joint. The lights were a little too bright for his liking. Not that he really gave a damn anyway. He gracefully sipped at a lime and soda – strange – he even had a straw. A more sluggable drink perhaps, like a whiskey sour, may have been a little more appropriate for the hardness he exuded. His reason, and there was only one for not drinking, was that he wanted to keep his wits about him. He wished to keep the pristine flow of crisp, white energy that coursed through his body, the clarity of thought it gave him. He found alcohol dulled his senses and liberated his brain in the wrong direction. He didn’t want to lose his edge he wanted to enhance it, grow it, and hone it. He had never been big on drugs but had tried coke and crack which he did find amenable to the way he wished to think and process information. It pricked his evilness not his conscience – the perfect frame of mind to be in. Crack had enhanced his thought processes to a point where he truly believed he wouldn’t have come up with some of the ideas he had had the pleasure of being involved in if it wasn’t for his crack infused thought processes and extended imagination. It was a bit like the difference between a slut with makeup on or off, there is a difference and ultimately it doesn’t matter but it can enhance the situation whilst maintaining the same happy ending.

Tonight he had his raven hair slicked tight like a skullcap to his well-shaped head, exposing dark hooded eyes. If you could’ve seen his eyes you would notice that they were blue. But in here you couldn’t tell and he wouldn’t look at you directly anyway. That was how he sometimes got away with being invisible – don’t look, bury your head in the sand. He remembered when he was little and was hiding from “the Father” or on the odd occasion when he was playing hide and seek with his pretend siblings, and if you watched the person that was supposed to be finding you they would see you quickly, but if you looked away they didn’t find you so easy. He figured it was his energy – that pulled or pushed people in or away. He could control this, he could be his ebullient self and charm his way into anyone although this wasn’t his favourite state of being, and he sought the darkness, the bitterness and cold of hate, resentment and spite. The cold fed his fire, fuelled it.

His eyebrows curved gracefully and tapered into almost pencil-like thinness and perfection. An aquiline nose smoothly contoured his profile along with high cheekbones and a strong jaw. He wore his hair semi-long so that he could gel it back like tonight or let it hang and curl about his face. He could drag his hand through it and grab the hair and pull it – that felt good. When he was busy or sometimes when he was concentrating he could push the hair behind his small, neat ears – all the better to block out the screaming with …but, his screams or theirs?

Two studs and a sleeper pierced his left ear, he didn’t have any tattoo’s as he believed that that was disfiguring. Heavy stubble hung with determination about his face, a slight ripple of movement in his jaw giving away his tense disposition. He felt naked when he shaved – even though the stubble hid nothing it just felt more protective or something. It certainly didn’t do much to hide the fact that he was aggressive. He looked like he hated everyone. He did hate everyone – everyone and everything and he was happy to show this, it was ok – other times it was not and he had to pretend his way through.

His cold blue eyes hunted the room, and so began the cataclysmic dynamo of reptilian brain and pure instinct. The hunter emerged like a damp but fierce butterfly, oozing from its cocoon. The laughter and chatter in the bar had no chance, whatsoever, of pervading his mind. But the distinctly direct tinkling of glasses dripped slowly into his brain, drawing his attention to the waitress. She was tapping two champagne glasses at him.

“Hello handsome!” She cooed, “Fancy a few bubbles with me?”

He quietly smiled – trying desperately to hold onto the dreamy picture of the waitress spluttering bubbles of bath water as he held her struggling body under the scary waters…

Something changed in him – something clicked from being disturbed and deviant to totally fucked up. He knew it of himself and instead of rejecting or resisting this abomination of self-belief, he embraced it – clung to it in justification of the horror he shoved ruthlessly at people. This was who he was and he rejoiced in it, he knew exactly what he was all about.

He looked carefully at the waitress. Her sandy blonde hair fell into a boyish frame around her pixie-like face. Not really his cup of tea. She had an upturned ski-slope of a nose and a tiny, red button mouth, which gave her an almost innocent look – not that Trixie was an innocent party in any degree. She’d had her share of part-time fucks and one night stands. She did have a relatively good body though but she was not quite tall enough to be really noticeable. Most people look awful with their clothes off anyway.

The dark man shifted his weight to his other foot and slid a hand into his jacket pocket. He felt his body come alive – the muscles in his chest felt like they were going to peel off his rib cage. The one other thing he did as obsessively as hunting women was looking after his body. He did it well too. He wasn’t one of those guys who only worked on his chest and arms and had weedy little legs. That looked so pathetic. One thing he couldn’t understand was why the dumb fucks didn’t realise or notice this when they looked in the mirror. They were most probably too scared to look past their hips, just in case it dawned on them that they were not that well endowed. Perhaps they had heard that if you had muscular legs it made your dick look small, hah! Anyway, he didn’t need to worry in that department, or any for that matter. It doesn’t count if you can just take what you want anyway.

He moved to stand taller and looked her up and down – real slow. He felt safe in the knowledge that she was already his. He knew she wanted him – real bad. He made a vague attempt at not being too smug about it.

Trixie felt as though everyone else had faded away into the far distance. His eyes shocked her when he finally lifted his head up to see her face. Like a stab in the heart. Pale blue, see-through icicles for eyes. They should have chilled her to the bone and made her run but instead he took a subtle step towards her and she couldn’t help but look at his crotch. The swelling warmth that beckoned her left her feeling abandoned and hungry at the same time.

Very deliberately he put down his drink – never breaking her gaze. Pulling her towards him he whispered in her ear – his fingers gripping her nipple tightly, he rolled it painfully to and fro, and then pinched her. She made a little squeal but she didn’t pull away. She wouldn’t resist him. He thought momentarily about that Jim Carry movie, Me, Myself and Irene – dabbled with the idea of his Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde personality and discarded it. He was most times Mr I ReallyWannaFuckYouUp and evolved into Mr Monster. The thought frittered away into nothingness – it meant nothing. He was who he was and it was all a part of him, that’s all – no extra psycho bits or strangeness; he was totally fucked, lost and helpless and loved it. There was absolutely nothing wrong with him, he was perfect – you try and resist that, bitch, he thought, instead saying,

“I like you – you’re my kind…,” softly in her ear, inhaling her body aroma, savouring the warmth radiating from her. She was slim and snappable. He imagined breaking her over his knee, how the change in her body would happen – from flailing arms and legs, struggling and fighting for life – held up over his head and forced down over his knee backwards with full intentional strength. He almost felt the snap of her spine and the floppy rag doll effect that action would have, almost. The almost was never enough.

Trixie’s breath felt trapped – she was panting, breathing deep the pheromones that made her feel weak and unbelievably horny. She pulled in the smell of his after-shave, gazed at his shining, hard and intense eyes that allowed her a wildly useless attempt to peer into his soul. It was more like looking through his soul seeing as he didn’t have one. Stupid girl – and she thought she was in love, or at least in lust. She couldn’t move.

He perceived this to be a requirement for more encouragement from him. He pressed himself hard up against her so that even he could feel the strangling pleasure of his restricting jeans. The thoughts that had aroused him to this point were not the same thoughts Trixie had floating in her head. He already knew what he was going to do to her. He already knew where he could take her to show him a good time.

He leant forwards and whispered again to her, “I will make you feel like you died and went to heaven – twice.”

Trixie being Trixie was not one to be told twice. She knew a good thing when she saw it and wowee, if he wasn’t something real good! Amazing eyes – and the body on him… Thank you God, thank you very much. She could tell by the way he acted that he was gonna be somethin’ else in bed! Yippee! So she managed to stop panting and carefully extricated herself from his grip.

“Well now, aren’t you a keen-bean!” She gushed, faintly clinging to a shred of dignity.

“You just let me go get my coat and stuff and I’ll meet you right back here – stay right here and I’ll just be one minute!” She replied and then she was gone – on a mission very possible.

He sipped on his drink, the coolness doing little to dampen the fire of hellish madness that raged throughout his whole being. The thought crossed his mind that he should’ve just asked her if she wanted a fuck and he could guarantee she would’ve answered yes. The approach that he took was not exactly soft sell. She might have pretended to be a bit coy, even admonish him possibly – taking a bold chance that he wouldn’t take umbrage to that and stalk off and she would have said yes. Women like that were such easy meat. They searched the room looking for men that looked like him – what most women would call beautiful. To him they looked like startled deer in a clearing – ready for him to aim his sights. They tended to cluster together when they were out which made it so easy. Obviously every girlfriend knows why the other girlfriend is there. They dance together and take groups of strange men into their little harem at a bar or their table and then they torture him and screw with his head. The guy walks away not only out of pocket due to the expensive rounds of cocktails but also totally confused and screwed up – without even a stinking phone number. But not him – he didn’t have to.

He had watched Trixie before. He marvelled at the thought that she had not recognised him. He was sure she had caught him out once – she had smiled at him in the supermarket that he’d followed her to. He did not have a shopping trolley or basket and he was staring at her. Admittedly he had taken the advantage of a heavier beard and scraggly hair, looking more like a street bum than how he preferred to portray himself. But sometimes these sacrifices were necessary for the greater evil. And maybe she was too dumb to know any different, not observant or aware. She was a simple girl – a basic instinct girl, he grinned at his words, she wanted it and now she was really going to get it.

He must stop smiling; someone was looking at him in a strange way from the corner of the bar. Suddenly he felt uncomfortable and headed for the door.

“Hey, where are you going?!” An accusing voice said from behind.

He didn’t need to turn around to see who it was. He heard the hurt undertone in the question and knew the basic instinct had returned. He grabbed Trixie by her hand and shuffled her through the crowded bar, turning his head away from the bar corner as he passed it. The person who had been watching him smiling was already talking to somebody else in a wildly animated fashion and didn’t even know he had moved, let alone that he maybe even existed. And fuck you too! He thought. He couldn’t resist pushing someone as those words coursed through his head, it didn’t make any difference as the bar was packed and everybody stood squashed like sardines, occasionally swaying in packs like the very fish they were likened to. Finally an exit. Trixie was following meekly – tottering along in her high-heels, anticipation hurrying her along. His grip was tight and even hurtful but she took it to mean that he was just keen and couldn’t wait to get her away from everyone else, so that she could have his full attention and she was right but not by all intents and purposes.

The night was sharp outside. The cold was bone-chilling and stole every little bit of heat from you when it could. Trixie pulled her coat tighter around her – though nothing was going to keep him out. Not windows, doors, locks or a bulletproof vest – nothing would ever keep him out again.

Trixie walked over to her car, a faded brown Toledo and he followed ever so slightly behind but next to her. The car also had a nice body – well kept. He hid his surprise and admiration, which was not hard to do as he had discovered at the age of seven, he was not good at sharing or showing any emotion. He actually had to teach himself how to smile. He had never smiled at home as there had never been a whole lot to smile about. So he learned to smile, to laugh without scaring people with the strangulated gurgling that came out when he first tried. It was not natural to him. It was not a normal occurrence but he learned.

“This yours?” He asked – his voice even sounding strange to himself.

“Nah,” she answered.

He almost laughed to himself then, thinking, I knew she couldn’t have a car like this. I knew it!

“It’s my brothers’ – he collects and renovates them – boring!” She hesitated then, “Hey, what’s your name by the way?”

Those darkened eyes swivelled around to see her. He didn’t turn his head.

“Is it important to you?” He mumbled, quickly looking down so that he didn’t have to make eye contact with her. He didn’t want her to be warned of the impending hell that raged in his eyes and would surely give him away if he did.

“Oh well,” she sighed, “I just thought we could get to know each other – I’d hate to call you Steve or Michael when I’m cumming!” She giggled, hunting in her never-ending handbag for the keys.

He wanted to snatch the handbag and strangle her with the strap. He could see in his minds’ eye the way her eyes would bulge with the surprise of it all and pressure build up would pop her tongue out of her mouth. He could almost hear the pumice-grinding sound of her larynx as the leather crushed her throat. The fire in him was raging once again, sending speeding bullets of distorted information through his brain. These images, thoughts and fantasies he had been playing in his mind was his foreplay, she had no idea that she was already getting fucked.

“You can call me anything you want – Michael, Steve – I don’t really give a shit,” he spat back at her.

Trixie felt a pang of doubt. Pity she didn’t hear it with the rest of her body. It was a loud and clear warning sign. Surely the blackness that hung around him like a mantle could be seen by one and all?

He needed to keep his shit together, if he expressed his eagerness or showed her his intentions too soon, he would blow it.

Trixie felt hesitant, something was hiding in the dark, murkiness of her very being. C’mon girl, this is what you wanted, isn’t it? She felt confused. Why did he have to speak to her like that? What’s wrong with me? So she may be easy but he could at least respect her for not playing head-games. It was not like she wanted a permanent boyfriend or marriage or anything like that. They were both grown-ups and both knew exactly what they were doing and why. She stole a look at him. He was glancing up and down the empty street, the street lamps casting unfamiliar shadows on his face. He looked different…. Still quite beautiful, but something was definitely wrong…

Suddenly his hand was at the back of her neck. He smashed her head into the car windscreen. A crash of stars stumbled into her brain that was almost more fascinating to watch than dealing with the terrible pain that ripped into the frontal lobe of her skull. Oh God – he’s going to rape me! I wanted him – why -No – God please…!

Thankfully He must’ve been listening because she fell unconscious the second time he smacked her head straight into the bonnet of the car. He glanced quickly around – no one in sight. He tried to control his breathing and sucked in a few huge gulps of the cold air forcing it deep into his lungs. The blood already screaming around his body was pushed to greater speeds and he felt like his whole body was pulsing – he was one giant throbbing maniac. Not a good thing to have loose on the street. Oh no no no… He sucked one deeper gulp of air to kick himself along, casually glanced up and down the street again, which was deader than a doornail. He grabbed the keys from the girl’s limp hand, fumbled with the lock, opened the door and pushed her in. He heard her ankle snap as he slammed the door closed. His mouth had begun to water.

The girl wasn’t heavy. In fact she felt so frail that he imagined being able to raise her up above his head again and just tearing her apart, like a bread roll, just like that, like a giant or the Hulk.

He stalked through the park with an air of determination and purpose. The park had an eerie, misty gloom, the sort of atmosphere you’d expect in a graveyard. Trixie could feel the cold. Her ankle was throbbing and her head ached. She marvelled at the fact that she was still alive.

Please dear God don’t let him kill me – please God, someone help me, PLEASE! She was praying for her life – she needed to, as futile as it was, there was nothing else left to do.

Her body was flung to the ground – she yelped. Tears welled up in her eyes and spilt over, dragging more of her multi layered mascara into sad harlequin streaks. She was petrified and couldn’t speak but kept sucking in little bits of nervous air.

I love to see them cry, he thought. He looked down at her. The meanness in him dragged his body downwards – giving him a hunched stance. His arms hung slightly away from his body. His legs spread. The feeling of control was all empowering. He stood there looking at her for two whole minutes, she just lay there gasping and staring up at him, stunned and immobilised.

Suddenly he knelt down. The movement, a sudden slice in her dreamlike trance. She shrieked and rolled away sobbing, the prickles and branches spiking her body, scratching the soft skin on the side of her neck, stabbing the backs of her arms through her woolly coat. Prickles on prickles of fear.

“You can’t go anywhere at all, little girl…”

His breath hung in the air and then dripped slowly to the ground. The earth cringed from the moisture. He bent towards her and pulled her face around – he needed her to be afraid, he needed her to stare her death in the face. His eyes made Trixie lose her bladder. She sobbed, clutching her arms to her chest in a pathetic effort to protect herself. Her warm urine steamed up into the chill night air – he was disgusted with her. Each victim handled his or her predicament differently to the next. She didn’t handle this well. He shrugged and she shrunk from him. Her eyes filled with unspoken pleading – unspoken as she knew she was going to die, she knew it to the core of her soul. That good ol’ gut instinct that makes you know beyond a doubt. That blackness she hadn’t seen earlier now enveloped them both, swirling about them in thickened spirals of evil. She was in the void.

“Do I scare you that much, baby? He whispered to her, “‘Cause you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” He had watched a lot of movies – especially horror movies and psycho thrillers, hoping to obtain a few gems of wisdom from the killers and creators of terror. He also enjoyed using lines or song lyrics from the movies that were his old favourites and right now he wanted her to make his day. To be quite honest he had found very few unusual or even potential gems of wisdom within the movie genre but enjoyed the delight of it all nevertheless.

He pulled her to her feet and started kissing her. She didn’t fight. The smell of piss offended him and he couldn’t find any pleasure in it other than maybe he could trick her into a lull and catch her off guard.

Trixie was tricked. Perhaps, just perhaps he will let her go if he gets what he wants and he may walk away satisfied and she may just be lucky enough to walk away.

PLEASE! She screamed in her head. Just play up to him. Just let him have his way. But convince him you’re not afraid. Make him think you like it – do it! She felt totally repulsed by him. Her whole being was straining against its natural instinct to frantically back-pedal her way out of this situation. To scream. To flee.

She opened her mouth to him – trying desperately to control the constant screaming in her brain that was threatening to erupt – accepting him into a part of her body all the while knowing that this was not going to change anything but hoping anyway. Always a flicker of hope.

His lips were wet but they burnt her mouth. His tongue flicked across her teeth and lips like a snake. Then he struck. Biting her tongue off. He spat to the ground. His mouth was a gash of redness in the dim light.

That redness is my lifeblood, Trixie thought, I am going to die.

“Caught you out bitch – tch tch!”

His mouth stretched out the words in jagged succession, the blood, thick and sticky, clung to his teeth as he spoke making Trixie think of vampire movies. Her last revelation being a belief in the Vampire world – her last thoughts that her god had abandoned her as blackness swallowed her up whole.

He hunkered on the ground next to her body. Sliding a hand through his dampened hair. He breathed heavily – he’d pay them all back – they just couldn’t help it and neither could he, nor did he want to – did he? He used to make up reasons as to why he killed all these women, excuses. It was never his fault and they all deserved whatever befell them – undoubtedly. Now there’s a curious thought…

He knew he had to help himself first and as far as he was concerned he was.

Lighting a cigarette he sat and smoked. The glow of amber a pinprick in the misty night. It never seemed like he was really smoking if he couldn’t see the smoke being expelled from his lungs. Did that make seeing believing?

Trixie moaned – sat forward coughing and spluttering. The blood had pooled in her mouth making her choke. He patted her on the back and she tried to avoid his touch, her ankle shrieking with every movement. It was like looking and feeling through a magnifying glass – everything was distorted and swollen.

He didn’t throw away the finished cigarette. He knew they might find the remains of it and trace some goddamned thing off it.

That was why he hardly ever fucked them either. They could trace a carpet fibre to your house for Christ sake. A cat hair, even. Fortunately he kept ahead of the programme, did his homework and knew what was going on in the police department. Instead he wrapped the filter in the foil from the cigarette box and pressed it flat to kill the coal. He could feel the heat between his forefinger and thumb. He almost wished it to burn him, it felt so good.

Pushing the foil into his jacket pocket, he stood up. Trixie was watching him. Icy terror had frozen the tears in her eyes. He pulled a soft leather pouch from his back pocket, lovingly sliding a long, finely sharpened cutthroat from it. He watched her face gather storm clouds of fright and whispered to her “Now it’s time to die!” He almost laughed or shrieked out loud at his own corny use of words, corny but very, very real and very, very true.

He grabbed a fistful of her blonde hair and snapped her head back – forcing her to lie down. She couldn’t beg him for her life, she garbled a few tongue-less words. Then he watched as if in slow motion she stretched her mouth open wide to scream. The scream almost escaped before he could lay the blade to her throat and slice. The forced air that was to push the scream out, burst in a flurry of tiny pink bubbles as he dragged the razor across her windpipe. The grating sound excited him as the blade moved over the cartilage, making an almost musical clicking.

Shit. He was covered in smatterings of blood. The burst of air she had been gathering to scream with had burst in his face. He could taste it and smell it. Her blood inspired him, pushed him further. This was his enlightening moment – his epiphany, a manifestation of all his work in all its glory. He wanted her blood to continue to rain upon him in all of his gloriousness, a celebration, a revelation, no – a cleansing. He so wanted to be naked with her right now.

His heart was thumping in his chest. Suddenly he felt awkward – like someone was watching although he knew irrefutably that no one was present. But perhaps it was more of a presence.

Whatever it was he didn’t like it. He had to get away – he had to go.

I wake up with a start, the sweat tickling my armpits and sides. My breathing is fast and my heart’s pounding. These dreams were so vivid. Nightmares really and certainly not sweet. The light was still on – casting a warm, homely glow around the room. I stood up – somewhat confused or disturbed. I didn’t know from what or why but I felt like I had been touched without knowing it – without wanting it. I headed for the bathroom. A shower would do me good. I felt like I needed to wash something off. The bathroom steamed up quickly – I see a pile of something in the corner, near the bath. Peering through the steam I see it’s yesterdays’ clothes, a jungle of jeans, T-shirt, bra and knickers. More washing. I look down to undo the buttons on my shirt. Smatterings of blood have dried on my fingers, crusting around the little channels of my fingernails and underneath my nails is a rusted red. My shirt is a kind of finely sprayed dirty pink. Oh God! Hauling back the bathroom door I shoot into the bedroom. My heart is racing. This can’t be happening to me! Waves of guilt and disgust crash down on me – I feel like I’m going to be physically sick but it passes and I wander back to the bathroom and sit in the shower for a while. The towel had blood on it but it’s surreal – it’s brown and not red – rusty. I walk back to my bedroom and open the wardrobe. Grabbing a shirt I head for the chest of drawers, doing my buttons up as I go – it was also dirty pink – spattered in a delicate bloody spray. Shit! I’m going mad! I rip the buttons open – frantic to escape this nightmare – or am I awake? The buttons are popping off, flying everywhere. My self-disgust is making me dry-retch but why? I pinch myself. It was me and here I was – you can never make yourself pinch yourself in a dream.

I pulled open a drawer and hauled out the clothes stuffed in there. They too, were covered in blood – shirts and jerseys I flung out. They were all bloodstained. My wardrobe of dresses, skirts, jackets – they all had it. All of my clothes – Jesus Christ Holy Mother of God – Please don’t let this be happening to me. I know I’ve done bad things but surely not this!

Suddenly I feel defeated. I don’t want to play this anymore. I want out – I want to take my ball and get the hell out of here.

I was staring at my wardrobe in horror. What I was seeing I just could not believe. The clothes hanging there started to ooze blood – it trickled down the skirts and jackets and thickly dripped, pooling into the carpet. I was transfixed. My body immobile in fright. It started to collect and move out towards me. I mustn’t let it touch me!

Then Leanne walks in as she usually does.

There I stand naked in a mound of clothes – others far-flung like sunken body parts on the backs of chairs, climbing out of my drawer and collapsed like car crash victims on my bed and floor.

Leanne didn’t see any blood. I didn’t know what to do. All the blood had vanished. Leanne had a slight speaking problem and gaped like a fish, made a great recovery and said, “Spring cleaning?”

I grabbed the nearest T-shirt and jeans and pulled them on.

“I thought I would just throw a whole load of junk out – I never wear this stuff anymore.” I mumbled.

Fuck, fuck and double fuck – If I can’t tell Leanne what’s happening who can I tell? Bad idea – I can’t tell anyone, I will sound nuts.

“You’re nuts Sinclair, you wear jeans everywhere!” See and I hadn’t even told her the truth.

“You look in a bad way, honey, is everything O.K.?” She was finally able to move out of the doorframe and came to give me a hug.

“Jesus Sin, you’re shaking like a leaf – what the hell is wrong?” She mutters into my soaking wet hair. Could I put it down to sleep walking? That I got into the shower sleep walking and pulled out all of my drawers and chucked clothes everywhere? I think so, I think I am a goddamned genius.

I couldn’t say anything about what I was really seeing and feeling – but it was a relief to have a hug from a friend. If anyone understood me it was Leanne. She looked at me really funny when I said about the sleepwalking but I don’t think she had any other explanation up her sleeve either so it was easier. We had been friends since primary school where we would hold hands every time we had to go anywhere and would never do anything unless the other was just as involved. We basically seemed to end up where each other was – wherever that might be. Lee was family, my sister from another mister, someone irreplaceable.

Both of us completed our educations at different universities but in the same state and decided to do the big overseas experience together. I had studied to be a veterinarian and Leanne an architect and we were off to see the big wide world.

We had so much fun, so many experiences, a few scary incidents but nothing that put us off adventuring and taking the unbeaten track on our journey.

There wasn’t a whole lot that Leanne didn’t know about me or me of her – if anything. I remember calling around to her work so that I could cry on her shoulder. It was the first day I had had to put three healthy puppies to sleep but not the first time I had needed to ball all over Lee. The owner had not spayed the bitch and the resulting episode was I, stricken at Leanne’s office, balling my eyes out in front of the business executives in their Armani suits and silken ties – looking terrified at the prospect of a little dampness on their lapels, feeling grateful that I wasn’t their friend. Of course Lee took it all in her stride. She didn’t care who might be watching. I needed her and she was there – as always. I’d like to think that she stayed my friend as our feelings were mutual and her genuine care and concern was reciprocated. There are some times when you need someone and that someone was Leanne – no matter, day or night. But this felt different – I was different. What could I say? For the first time in our lives I had to withhold information and the guilt from that alone was insurmountable. I didn’t even know what was happening to me either so how do you explain that to someone? Even someone I loved and trusted so explicitly. My head felt too full. As minutes even ticked by I began to doubt what had happened to me. I could still see everything in front of me; I know what I saw…really?

I needed to escape a little, breathe a little. I think I was in a sort of burnt-out shut-down mode. Leanne sorted out my clothes and make-up and kindly held back her curiosity – she’s good like that – special.